Short Fiction, Leonid Andreyev [good e books to read .TXT] 📗

As usual Peter Iljitch was the centre of his family, and the expressions, “His Excellency ordered it,” “His Excellency wishes⁠ ⁠…” “His Excellency would be angry⁠ ⁠…” were now as ever the household words; and yet, had they set up a puppet in his place, dressed in the Governor’s uniform, and let it speak a few words, it would have made no difference⁠—so much of the office was but empty form!

If he fell into a rage and shouted at a man, and that man trembled, it looked as though the rage and the trembling both were simulated, and that nothing of the sort had really taken place. Even had he committed a murder in these days, that very death would have seemed counterfeited. As far as concerned himself, he still lived; but to the others he had already died, and they handled the dead carelessly, and felt the cold and the gloom that emanated from him without quite understanding what it meant.

Thought can kill in time! Drawing its strength from the Eternal Sources, it is mightier than engines, weapons, or powder! It robs men of their will, and makes even the instinct of self-preservation blind. It clears a free space for its deadly stroke; as the forest underbrush is cleared about the tree that must be felled! So this thought was killing the Governor!⁠ ⁠… As the child, when the time of its fruition is complete, struggles from its mother’s womb, this imperious death-dealing thought⁠—till now giving evidence of its being only by the muffled beating of its heart⁠—strove irresistibly toward the light, and began to lead an individual life. Imperiously it called up those from the dark who should do the deed, and hailed them as saviour!

Unconsciously the people held themselves aloof from the one dedicated to death, and robbed him of that invisible but mighty shield that the life of the mass forms for the life of the individual.

After the first anonymous letter calling the Governor “Butcher⁠ ⁠…” a few days passed without any such missives. Then, as if with silent accord, they began literally to shower upon him, as though they had poured from a slit in the postbag; and each morning the stack of envelopes on his desk grew higher. In different quarters of the town, out of different postboxes, these letters were segregated from the other mail by different people; gathered into a heap, and brought to their common destination⁠—this one man! Formerly the Governor had received anonymous letters, sometimes with abuse and veiled threats, mostly denunciations and complaints, but he had never read them. Now, however, he felt himself impelled to read them; as he was forced, too, to think constantly of his own death.⁠ ⁠… And reading and reflection both required solitude!⁠ ⁠…

Seldom through the day, but oftener towards evening, he sat at his disordered desk with a glass of tea untasted by his side, shrugged his broad shoulders, put on his strong, gold-rimmed spectacles, examining the envelopes of the letters as he opened them. He had learned to know them at a glance. For, in spite of differences in writing, paper, and postmarks, they had something in common⁠—like the dead in the engine-house!⁠ ⁠… and not only he, but the lodge-keeper, who took in Peter Iljitch’s private correspondence, recognised them unerringly.

The Governor read each letter attentively⁠—earnestly⁠—from beginning to end; and if any words were illegible, he puzzled over them long, as to their meaning. Uninteresting ones, or those that contained only filthy abuse, he destroyed; also those which gave him friendly warning of his coming assassination. All others he numbered and filed, for some reason unknown to himself. In general their contents were wearisomely monotonous. Friends warned, foes threatened⁠—and the matter dwindled into a series of inconclusive “Ayes” and “Noes.”

From constant repetition he was quite used to the words “Murderer” on the one hand⁠ ⁠… and “Steadfast Defender of Order” on the other, and to a certain extent had accustomed himself to that other thought⁠ ⁠… that friend and foe alike believed in the inevitable approach of his death!⁠ ⁠… A cold shudder ran over him. He would gladly have warmed himself, but there was nothing to warm him.⁠ ⁠… The tea was cold!⁠ ⁠… they always brought him cold tea lately, for some reason!⁠ ⁠… and even the high tiled stove was cold!⁠ ⁠… Long ago⁠—soon after he had come here⁠—he had intended to build a fireplace, but he had put it off, and the old Dutch oven gave very little heat, no matter how much coal you burned!⁠ ⁠… In vain he hugged the lukewarm tiles, then paced the floor up and down, saying, in his deepest regimental tones: “I’ve grown to be a perfect hothouse plant!”⁠ ⁠… Then he sat down to his letters again, looking for something important or decisive.

“Your Excellency!⁠—You are a General, but Generals are mortal too. Some Generals die a natural death, and some by violence. You, your Excellency, will die a violent death!

“I have the honour to subscribe myself, your Excellency’s most obedient servant.⁠ ⁠…”

The Governor smiled⁠—at that time he could still smile⁠—and was about to tear the carefully written page when he bethought himself, made a marginal note: “No. 43, Sept. 22, 190-,” and filed it.

“My Lord Governor! (or to be more correct, My Lord Turkish Pasha!)⁠—You are a thief and a hired assassin!⁠ ⁠…

“I’d swear to God you turned a pretty penny on that transaction when you murdered the working men.⁠ ⁠…”

The Governor turned purple, crumpled the note in his fist, pulled off his spectacles and roared, with the roll of a big bass drum:

“R-r-r-r-apscallion!”

Then he dug his hands into his pockets, stuck out his elbows and began to pace the floor in a feverish rage⁠ ⁠… keeping time with the rhythm of: “This-is-the-way-the-Gov-ern-ors walk!”

When he had quieted himself he smoothed out the letter, read it to the end, numbered it with an unsteady hand, and filed it carefully. “He must certainly see that,” he said, thinking of his son.

That same evening Fate sent him another letter. It was